


The little things give you away

by Lymphadei



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Attempt at Humor, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, POV Greg, POV Greg Lestrade, POV Third Person, Pining Sherlock, Recreational Drug Use, Unilock, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-23
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-10-09 18:49:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10418763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lymphadei/pseuds/Lymphadei
Summary: In which Greg lives with two idiots who don’t know how to talk about their feelings and wishes they would get on with it.





	

**** “Sherlock, did you eat all the biscuits from Tesco?  I only just bought them last night,” John groused, coming to stand in the doorway of the kitchen, his arms crossed over his chest as he glared at the long-limbed man sprawled over the couch. 

Greg sat on the floor with his back to the couch, partaking in the spliff they were sharing. Final exams were over and done with and Greg had been waiting for this moment all day. Sherlock always scored the best marijuana and John kept the pantries stocked with nosh for nights like these.

Sherlock snatched the joint from Greg’s fingers and brought it to his lips, curving around the tip of it as he inhaled straight to his lungs. Their little flat on Montague smelled like marijuana and one of Sherlock's dodgy experiments decaying in the kitchen sink. John returned to the room with a packet of crisps and some Jelly Babies, which he tossed to Greg.

“Cheers,” Greg called as he fumbled clumsily with the bag. Sherlock sat up slightly to make room for John, before promptly plopping his head in John’s lap once he was settled into the couch. “Fucking Christ, Sherlock, what’ve you got dying in the kitchen? It smells horrid,” Greg griped, wrinkling his nose.

John snickered, accepting the spliff from Sherlock with a smirk. “Don't go into the loo.”

He inhaled once, twice and held it in, before blowing it out with a soft gust of air. Sherlock's eyes were closed but his lips twitched upwards slightly as he turned his face sideways to press into John’s belly. Sherlock didn't talk much when he was high, but when he did, he would ramble about every little thing until he’d realize that John and Greg had left the room hours ago. Thank God for small miracles that it wasn’t one of those days, Greg thought.

John passed the joint down to Greg, who took it between the tip of his thumb and forefinger, sparing a glance at his friends and flatmates.

“Aren't you two fucking cute,” he said dryly, without any real discontent. After a year of living with those two, Greg was used to John and Sherlock's unusual friendship, if that's what it could be called. They denied any sort of relationship, yet the pair of them touched more than any friends Greg had ever known. It didn't extend to him, but in a way, it was lovely to watch them together. Greg couldn't deny he indulged in a fantasy or two about them on the lonely nights when he was horny and couldn’t sleep.

“Jealousy is unattractive on you, Lestrade,” Sherlock tutted, reaching up his spindly fingers to snag a crisp from John’s hand. He popped it in his mouth with a pleased hum and extended his hand for the joint. “You're boring me.”

Greg relinquished the marijuana and tilted his head back, watching the cloud of smoke expel past his lips in wispy white plumes. He wasn't jealous. Okay, maybe a bit, but who wouldn't want what those two had with one another? Greg hadn't even gotten as close with some girlfriends.

At first, Greg had thought it was odd. When they’d met, John was dating a lovely bird named Sarah, yet he’d walk into the flat only to see John and Sherlock snuggling on the couch like a couple of lovebirds. It used to confuse Greg a bit, but then he’d moved in and it thoroughly scrambled him.

Sherlock could be possessive, and Greg was sure he was the reason for so many of John's failed relationships, and yet, Sherlock claimed that all of it was beneath him; no, he and John were not shagging, and no, he didn't conform to labels in regards to his sexuality. For all his posh tongue-wagging, Sherlock acted for all the world like a possessive berk and one of the most needy individuals Greg had ever come into acquaintance with.

John wasn't much better. Greg sensed co-dependency, and he found that he wouldn't be surprised at all if this was the case. The two were rarely without one another, and God forbid John picked up a bird for the night and didn't return to the flat. Sherlock would keep Greg awake all night waging war on his violin.

It was all just a matter of time, in his opinion.

“Sod off, ya bloody tosser,” he mumbled, tossing a Jelly Baby into his mouth. Mm, raspberry.

Greg stepped out shortly after, when Sherlock had fallen asleep with his head in John’s lap and John had dozed off with his fingers tangled in Sherlock's messy curls. It wasn't the first time he’d seen them that way, so intimately entangled, and yet, blind to whatever it was that had obviously been cultivating between them for years. Again, Greg felt that trickle of envy. One day, he would have that with someone.

Not to say that he wasn't happy for his friends. Greg didn't know much about John and Sherlock's history, just that they’d known one another since ankle-biters, but John had gotten Sherlock through a bad time in his life, and likewise. Strife had formed a strong bond between them, and Greg couldn't fault his friends for that.

Greg walked for hours, thinking of John and Sherlock before his mind turned to other avenues of thought, mainly the urge to call the beautiful woman he’d met weeks ago on the tube. She’d said her name was Molly and she was studying Pathology. She was a doe-eyed girl; bit shy, but the type that Lestrade often found himself falling for. Mina, his girlfriend through most of the last year, had been the same when they’d first met. She was beautiful, looked a bit like Vivien Leigh, with thick chestnut hair she kept up in ties. Said it gave her more trouble than allure most days.

Mina had wanted more time than Greg was capable of sparing, so it ended there on the brink of the last semester. Sherlock and John's odd relationship didn't help much, and whenever Mina saw them together, she would become timid and quiet.

“She was raised in a predominately Catholic environment,” Sherlock had told him after Mina made her excuses and scuttled out of the flat with a quick kiss on his cheek, dashing Greg’s hopes for a post-date shag. “Believe me, you wouldn't have gotten far with that one. She doesn't believe in sex before marriage and is under the illusion that all homosexuals are living in sin, hence her best imitation of sucking on a lemon when either John or myself are near. Really, Lestrade. Less than a minute of conversation with her and this was all fairly obvious to me. Even John could figure this out, and he’s-”

“If you don't want to starve, you will not finish that sentence,” John cut in, licking his finger to turn to the next page in his text at the kitchen table. Sherlock's lips snapped shut, and nothing more was said on the matter.

Afterward, Greg rarely ever brought Mina to the flat, and whenever he did, he couldn't help but notice the way her eyes would flicker noticeably to and away from his flatmates. While John would at least make an effort to make Greg’s girlfriend comfortable, Sherlock had no such compunction.

There was one memorable instance in which Greg had brought Mina over to watch a film. Of course, Greg had other things in mind, but Sherlock, the bloody cock-block, arrived with John in tow, drunk off their arses and more handsy than usual. Beside him, Mina had instantly tensed up, her body a hard ridge tucked into the crook of his arm.

Sherlock took one look and Greg knew in that moment that he was going to be hell.

“Oh, hello Mina,” John greeted her gamely, his eyes squinting as he struggled to focus.

Mina smiled politely and raised a hand to push an errant strand of hair behind her ear. She always did this when she was nervous, so Lestrade reckoned he had about ten minutes before Mina made her excuses.

Sherlock pointedly ignored her and stomped around the room with about as much grace as a herd of elephants, shucking off his shoes and coat before he collapsed in his chair, pulling John with him. John landed sideways in his lap, his legs draped over the arm of the chair and his arse between Sherlock's splayed thighs. John placed his head on Sherlock's chest and pulled out his phone while Sherlock dragged his long, pale fingers over John's scalp. If that didn't spell out gay couple in large bold letters, then Greg would be pressed to find something more convincing.

When Mina dared to glance over, Sherlock wrapped his free arm around John's waist and stared back defiantly. That night, Mina was gone in record time. Sherlock, as usual, was unapologetic.

Greg sighed at the memory and pulled a box of cigarettes from his pocket, packing it before he opened the lid and tipped one out. The first drag of nicotine was delightful and warmed his throat as he inhaled, a perfect counter to the cold weather. He would call Molly tomorrow and ask her out for coffee, and if all went well, he’d make certain to warn her of his wayward flatmates beforehand - especially Sherlock.

 

*

 

There were a few frustrating times in which Greg wished that Sherlock and John would confront their feelings for one another, times when the pair of them would engage in a screaming row that reeked of sexual frustration and Greg wanted to yell at them to go shag it out, because he was watching Spooks and they were bloody well ruining it. By the time Greg had been living with them for a year and a half, it still hadn't come, and Greg didn't know whether to lock them in a room together or to stay out of it and let his friends suss it out on their own.  

Then there were the private fights that Sherlock didn't want Greg to hear. In those times, Greg swore that he lived with a married couple. On one occasion, Greg returned home to an empty living room, and when he went looking for his flatmates, he found John and Sherlock arguing in furtive undertones in John's (their) room. Sherlock's back had been towards the door, so it was John who had spotted him. Just a slight flicker of his eyes past Sherlock's shoulder and the tall bastard was turning around. Sherlock spared Greg a scathing, accusatory glare and slammed the door shut between them. Greg had stood there for a moment, shuffling his feet like a child who’d been caught eavesdropping on his parents.

Eventually, whenever people asked about the nature of his friend's relationship, Greg learned to simply respond with, “It's complicated.”

Soon, Greg was spending less time at the flat on Montague and more time with Molly. She was a sweet girl with an even temper and a hell of a personality buried beneath layers of social awkwardness. Greg thought that he could come to love her and it wouldn't be hard when it finally happened. Molly was beautiful in all the right ways and if things worked out, their career choices would cross paths at some turn.

Greg didn't notice anything different until one of the rare mornings he was at the flat on Montague. He hadn't called it home in a while, because even though that was where his friends were and his clothes and bed, Molly’s little one bedroom flat near Bart’s was where he had begun to feel most at home. So he left the comfort of Molly’s bed early and made the trek to his flat for more clothes and maybe a cuppa with John.

The front door was locked, which was unusual, but Greg just figured that either John or Sherlock had secured it for once. He shrugged off his unease and deftly unlocked the door, prepared to get in and out. It was a two bedroom flat and Sherlock often slept on the couch, but Lestrade wouldn't be surprised if he was in the room. Sherlock and John sometimes—“platonically”—shared a bed, so Greg didn't waste another moment thinking of the empty couch. He did pause, however, at the loud thump from the direction of John's room.

Greg had one foot on the bottom step and the other on the floor, already turning his body to follow the sound through the kitchen to the short corridor that led to the loo and John’s shared bedroom. Another series of thumps, louder and more rhythmic, like wood hitting plaster. Greg stalked through the hallway, keeping his breathing low and even as he strained his ears to hear better. If this was what he thought it was...

The door swung open, and there stood Sherlock, fully dressed and leaning against the door. Behind him, John was hitting a nail with a hammer in perfectly timed thumps. For the love of God, he thought in exasperation. He was having heart palpitations, and Sherlock, the smug git, was smirking as if he'd known what Greg had been thinking.

“Bloody — Sherlock, are you going to help me with this? After all, this is  _ your  _ periodic table I'm hanging up,” John complained, before turning around. “Oh, hullo, Greg,” John said pleasantly, hopping down from the bed. “Did you need something?”

“Actually,” Greg began stiffly, at the the same time that Sherlock raised one brow and said to John, “He thought we were having sex.”

‘Open floor,’ Greg thought desperately, “and take me in thine arms.’

John was blushing profusely, and Greg was mortified to be caught out, and Sherlock, that tree-limbed arse was smiling as if it were Christmas. Greg wanted to punch him, but instead he stuttered out some pathetic excuse and grabbed his things quickly before heading out again.

The further Greg walked from the flat, the less he felt the heady tension that enveloped the place and the occupants therein.

 

*

 

It was like any other night with the sideshow that was John and Sherlock's “platonic” friendship. Sherlock had gotten something or the other stuck in his hair, and so he sat between John's legs on the floor with his back to the chair that John occupied, pouting grievously as a brush was pulled through his damp hair. 

Greg was lying on the couch with his feet up, watching a rerun of Top Gear, nodding off after a late night with Molly before her week-long visit to see her parents in Cambridge.

“I told you this isn't necessary, John,” Sherlock growled, though there wasn't much heat behind it. Past the irritation, there wasn't a tense line to Sherlock's body, and his eyes were incapable of staying more than half-mast as John brushed his hair. “It's only blood. I could've easily washed it off in the shower.”

John smiled patiently, though Sherlock didn't see it, and continued his task with slow measured strokes of the brush. “No,  _ you _ would have missed all the fleshy bits and then let your hair air dry without brushing out the tangles, like you always do. Then you'll be whingeing all night because I'm incapable of running my fingers through it.”

Sherlock winced and scowled as John ran the brush through a particularly brutal clump of curls. “Gah—John, is brute force absolutely necessary in this instance?” Sherlock snarled. He reached up to touch the aching spot on the crown of his head with questing finger, which John happily slapped away with the brush. “John!”

“Well, I hope we’ve learned our lesson about blowing up livers in the kitchen, then,” John chided in a pleasant, manner. “Right. I think this is enough to be getting on with.” John set the brush down and pushed Sherlock's grumbling form away from the chair and retreated to the loo.

Sherlock watched him go with an odd expression, one which Greg thought looked familiar. Then he remembered that he often looked at Molly the same way, wondering when the day would come that she realized she’d fallen for an utter wanker. Greg jackknifed from his slovenly position on the couch and stared at Sherlock accusingly. The other man reluctantly tore his eyes away from John—John's arse, Greg wasn't blind—in the hallway and met Greg’s stare unerringly.

“What?” Sherlock muttered, rolling his eyes as the pout returned.

“I knew it,” Greg hissed in triumph, swinging his legs off the cushions to meet the floor. “You two’ve been shagging, haven't you?” He prodded, positive that it wasn't all in his mind. Friends his arse, Greg thought. Friends didn't look at one another the way Sherlock had just now.

“No,” Sherlock replied, though this time there wasn't a hint of playfulness in his tone. In fact, he seemed rather put out, so Greg decided not to push the issue. Instead, he made it his mission to bring things to a head. A man could only take so much sexual tension in a room, and Sherlock was enough of a terror without the added effects of pining.

But for now, he observed.

 

*

 

John had a date with his latest the next night, and of course, that didn't go down well. Greg had planned for a pub crawl with a friend from school, but when he caught wind of Sherlock's barely suppressed anger, he decided that it might be for the best to stay and play mediator.

“She has a history of sexually transmitted diseases, John. She's slept with any man whose given her even the slightest amount of attention. Her wilting flower persona is nothing but a hare-brained attempt at making you believe she’s some virtuous woman, when she’s nothing but a harlot. It’s laughable is what it is,” Sherlock griped, following John around as he prepared for his date.

Finally, at the end of his rope, John stopped and turned, pointing a cautionary finger at Sherlock. “Stop this, Sherlock, I mean it. You don't have to like her and it really doesn't bother me whether you do or don't, but do me a favour and don't ruin this for me.”

“I'm not  _ ruining _ anything, John, but it's important that you're aware of what you're getting into.”

“Sherlock,” John sighed as he shrugged on his jacket. “I have to go. Don't wait up for me.”

“Fine,” Sherlock snapped, working himself up into a snit as John said a final goodbye to Greg and shut the door to the flat behind him. “Idiot,” he hissed fiercely at the door, before clamoring over to the window on heavy feet. Greg watched silently as Sherlock pulled back the curtain and scoured the street below with disdain.

Greg threw up his hands in exasperation and flopped down on the couch, running a hand over his face tiredly. The pub crawl was now a distant dream. Greg knew that if he left Sherlock to his own devices tonight, he might return to a burned out flat, or worse, Sherlock high off his arse and trying to experiment.

Sherlock was already reaching for his violin case when Greg decided that it might be a good idea to talk Sherlock out of whatever black mood he was sinking into. “For the love of all that is good and sane, why not just tell John how you feel,” Greg blurted, flabbergasted by the appalling stupidity of his friends. Seriously, they  _ slept  _ together. All it took was for one of them to roll over press up against the other, and then, voila! Okay, maybe Greg was getting into one of his fantasies, but that wasn't the point! Why were John and Sherlock making it all so complicated? Honestly?!

What Greg wasn't prepared for was Sherlock's vehement, “Piss off!” before he abandoned the violin and his post at the window and stormed to his room, slamming the door.

Greg resigned himself to a night of EastEnders and leftover chicken tikka masala. Sherlock's bedroom door stayed firmly shut, with only the glow of the light beneath the door to show that he was awake. Probably waiting up for John, anyway.

Greg was just nodding off with a belly full of good food and Molly on his mind when the front door opened earlier than expected. It wasn't even midnight, yet.

John looked weary as he peeled off his jacket and toed off his shoes. His date was nowhere to be seen, so Greg could only conclude that it hadn't gone well.

“Good, you're back,” Greg commented blandly as John made his way to the kitchen. “Your boyfriend's been sulking since you left.”

John filled up the kettle and switched it on before coming to stand at the entrance of the sitting room. “Sorry, Greg,” said John, a bashful, apologetic smile curving around the corner of his lips. “I know you had plans tonight. You should've gone. I'm sure Sherlock is okay to be left alone for an hour or two.”

Speaking of which —

“I'm not a child, John. I've survived this long without your “guidance”,” Sherlock snapped as he emerged from his bedroom, pushing past John and into the sitting room. He flopped in his armchair with one last scornful glare in John's direction.

Greg scoffed. “Decided to join us, have you?” He derided, irritated that Sherlock couldn't be arsed to join him earlier. “Look, I'm going up to bed. Whatever this is, whatever is happening,” Greg said, gesturing vaguely between a petulant Sherlock and wary John, “you two need to fix it. It's like walking on eggshells around here, bloody christ.”

Neither of them said a word, and John turned back to finish preparing his tea, so Greg figured it was as good a time as any to disappear. They would work it out. They always did.

When he looked back, Sherlock was peering into the kitchen, his jaw tense.

_ ‘Fucking hell, just do it, already!’ _

Greg shook his head and continued up the stairs because as much as he was all for Sherlock and John finally shagging, he didn't have near enough patience to wait for the stupid blokes to get their heads out of their arses.

As his head hit the pillow, the sound of Sherlock’s low baritone cut sharply through the floorboards.

“...how thick can you  _ possibly  _ be, John? For god's sake, I didn’t think I could be any more obvious in my regard for you!”

John’s reply got lost in the rattle of the aircon finally kicking on, but Greg was familiar with the soft placating tone he often used to calm Sherlock, the only thing that ever worked on the mad bastard.

The flat went quiet after that, and soon, Greg was dropping off into the first solid sleep he’d had in days.

 

*

 

_ ‘The fuck was that?’  _

This was Greg’s first thought upon being rudely awakened by whatever the fuck his bloody lunatic flatmates were getting up to downstairs.

_ “Mmph!” _

“Christ, what the sodding hell…” Greg rubbed the rheum from his eyes and squinted at the clock.  **02.00** .

“Oh, fuck offff,” Greg groaned, turning to pull the pillow over his head, but another muffled noise stopped him. Hell, it sounded like…

_ “Ah!” _

Bullshit, he thought to himself. It couldn't possibly be happening— _ finally _ —at  _ this  _ hour of the night. Then again, when better than under the cover of darkness?

So Greg pulled himself together and thoroughly wiped the sleep away from his eyes, because he would need to see this to believe it.

The stairs were cold under his feet, but Greg ignored it in lieu of focusing all of his attention on not making a sound. Sherlock had ears like a bat.

A soft, breathy sigh and the slick sound of something wet smacking together. There was no possible way this wasn't what Greg suspected. He figured that he should feel guilty about the intent to witness what should be a private moment, but Greg really did just want to confirm his suspicions, that's all; absolutely no other reason he’d be sneaking on the steps at two in the morning.

Greg descended the steps and crouched so he could just make out the pair sitting on the couch. Well, he said sitting, but that was a bit different from what was actually happening.

Sherlock and John were sitting next to each other, their thighs close enough to touch. They were snogging, quite enthusiastically, Greg might add, and Sherlock was turned, halfway looming over John, whose head was tilted back against the couch from the force of Sherlock's kisses.

And Sherlock's hand,  _ oh dear, God. _

Greg could feel the heat crawling up his neck, the gradual warmth spreading up his cheeks and to the tips of his ears until he was hot like a furnace.

Sherlock's hand was half hidden in shadow, but Greg could clearing see it moving between John's spread thighs. He was palming John through his pyjama pants, large pale hand rubbing greedily over John's crotch.

_ “Jesus,”  _ John moaned, but Sherlock only allowed a moment's breath before he was swooping down to cover his lips again.

_ Fucking  _ hell.

Greg had often thought of this very scenario upon the first few months of living with Sherlock and John. He had never met friends who gravitated around one another the way those two did, and though he hadn't so much as touched another penis in years, Greg couldn't help but to be pulled in by their odd relationship.

Now, all of those thoughts came rushing back until Greg was standing on the stairs with a hard-on, and the two oblivious blokes quickly advancing into uncharted territory right before his eyes. Maybe just a few moments more…

John's hand came up to tangle in Sherlock's curls, his hips jutting up to meet the hand now moving to pull the tied drawstring on his pyjama pants.

“ _ Oh, Jesus,”  _ John whimpered when Sherlock pulled away to allow him a moment, and Greg echoed that sentiment silently, afraid to move one inch, even if the pressure in his pants needed relieving.

Sherlock's low chuckle followed, before he softly corrected John with a sultry, “wrong,” before dipping down to where he’d released John's cock from its confines.

Greg clamped a hand over his mouth and nose to stifle his loud breathing, a bit disgusted with himself that he couldn't pull himself away. Truthfully, he ought to be ringing Molly up about this, seeing as she also had a bit of a thing about Sherlock and John. A few times, it might have come up before a vigorous bout of sex, which should have been weird and creepy, but it made the sex fantastic. Not that the sex hadn't been fantastic without it, but they get their kicks where they can.

A throaty groan pulled Greg's attention back to the couple on the couch. Sherlock's head was bobbing in earnest now, and Greg could see where he had one hand on John's waist to stay some of his more enthusiastic thrusts. Greg's was afforded a nice view of Sherlock's lips wrapped around John's cock, the wet glimmer of saliva Sherlock left behind whenever he pulled up, and  _ Christ,  _ Sherlock gave messy blowjobs, apparently.  

Sherlock let up briefly, pulling back to pump John's cock as he reached up to steal another wet kiss. 

Could this even qualify as kissing, Greg wondered, when their lips hardly ever touched around their sodding tongues?! Sherlock pulled his tongue back and nipped hungrily at John's lips, then one peck, two, and he was pulling away again to descend.

Okay, Greg couldn't take anymore, and by the sound of it, John was close. He’d have to leave before it was over, or else Sherlock would know he was there. Nevermind that he was a bit disappointed he wouldn't be able to see things through to the end. How would John reciprocate?

As far as Greg knew, John had never been with a man, besides Sherlock. Would he go for the blowjob or would he use his hand? Perhaps they might retire to the room and Sherlock would fuck him? Or would they fuck on the couch? Greg knew if they did, he would never sit there again, because if he did, he would blush every time, thinking about the time his flatmates shagged exactly where he was sitting, then Sherlock would want to know why he was avoiding the couch, and further deduce that Greg had seen everything.

Bollocks.

So Greg turned as quietly as he could manage and creeped up the stairs, avoiding the step that always squeaked. Once Greg was safe back in his room, he leaned against the door and squeezed his eyes shut, unable to stop thinking about what was going on downstairs.

His cock was hard enough to stab through the door and his balls ached like all hell. Greg sighed out a, “Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” before huffing out a tired chuckle.

Well, he thought, peering down at his erection through his pyjama pants, that wasn't going to go away on its own. So, Greg pushed away from the door and went for the lube.

 

*

 

The next morning, Greg awoke groggy and vaguely dissatisfied, like most nights when he was forced to relieve himself by hand. The quick wank of the night before hadn't been half as satisfying, and now Greg was set for an equally pitiful week that would be much the same without Molly. 

The flat was silent save for the old, rattling radiator and the creaks and groans of wood settling. Outside, traffic was just beginning to pick up and the binmen carrying away the rubbish in the alley below.

Greg decided to lay in his bed for a little while longer, until nature called, then he swung his legs over the side until his feet touched the cool floor. He knew that he was putting off going downstairs. In the light of day, Greg just knew— _ knew!— _ that Sherlock would know he’d seen everything the night before. If Sherlock were a good person, he would spare John the mortification of having an audience the night before, but he wasn't. Sherlock was a terrible human being, and Greg was a creepy bastard who got off on watching his two make flatmates have sex.

_ ‘Can't hide forever,’ _ Greg thought, and readied himself to face the music.

By the time Greg had relieved the pressure on his bladder and tended to his morning regimen, Sherlock was already spread out on the couch with his eyes closed, his long form taking up the entirety of the couch.

“Morning,” said Greg, and hurried to the kitchen without making eye contact. Maybe if he didn't acknowledge it, then neither would Sherlock.

Sherlock’s reply followed him into the kitchen. “Did you enjoy the show?”

Greg, careful not to show that he was surprised in any way—after all, he  _ had  _ been expecting this—merely went for the kettle with an answer thrown over his shoulder. “Didn't see any show last night.”

“Don't play stupid, Gregory. You've about as much subtlety as a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar. If your loud breathing didn't give it away, then perhaps you should have avoided groaning like a man on his deathbed during your wank afterward.”

“Oi!”

“At least you had the decency to take it upstairs,” Sherlock grumbled blandly. “Besides the fact that you were shamelessly watching as I fellated John,” at this, Greg nearly choked on his own breath, “You nearly ruined the moment with your terrible mouth breathing and skulking about. If you wanted to watch, you could have simply asked. Granted, John would most certainly have his hang-ups on the matter, and I don't know how I'd feel about you watching him in such a state—”

Greg wanted nothing more in that moment than for the building to collapse and bury him in the rubble. Quickly, he cut in to save them both any further dignity. “Sherlock! Sherlock, shut it.”

The man snapped his lips closed and pulled them inwards, though he looked as if he had more to say.

“Listen, last night, I wasn’t—”

“Come now, Lestrade,” Sherlock piped up again, his voice mockingly gentle.

“Alright, look, you two prats finally got yourselves together and I can admit, I had my fair share of curiosity. Doesn't mean I want to shag either of you.”

“Good, because I don't share,” Sherlock snapped, and Greg decided to leave it there, because there was no way this conversation could get any worse.

The rest of the morning proceeded in a staticky silence, in which Sherlock went about ignoring Greg's existence, and Greg wondered idly about the whereabouts of the suspiciously absent John. He didn't have to wait long.

The bedroom door at the end of the hallway opened, and John emerged looking enviously well-rested and much too content for a uni student with a mountain of debt and a murky future.

“Morning,” John greeted, and headed straight for the kettle. Sherlock didn't reply, but his body noticeably tensed, unconsciously responding to John's presence in the room.

Greg shook his morning paper and pretended he wasn’t soaking it all in.

After a minute, Sherlock sat up, though he did so at his own pace, but Greg caught his eyes drifting to the kitchen. Without calling too much attention to himself, Sherlock stood and stretched languidly, while Greg tried not to smile at Sherlock's terrible attempt at nonchalance.

Honestly, for a genius, Sherlock could be ridiculously slow on the uptake.

Finally, Sherlock made his way to the kitchen, followed by a low, “Morning,” to John.

“Morning,” John replied, and he sounded like he was smiling. If Greg turned his head just so, he would be able to see into the kitchen.

Sherlock was looming in every sense of the word, his tall, lean figure nearly bent over John's until Greg could only see John's hand as it reached up to Sherlock's nape, and yep—they were snogging.

Well, that was Greg's cue.

He stood up and shoved his feet into his shoes, grabbed his wallet and keys, cell phone in hand, and made for the door. But first, one last look.

John was preparing his tea and Sherlock was leaning back on the counter next to him, a secretive little smile, wholly for John, threatening to spread into a full grin. John took a sip and set the cup on the counter before moving in front of Sherlock.

Sherlock wrapped his long arms around John’s waist as John reached up to kiss him.

Now it was getting a bit too sappy for Greg, but he was happy for them. Greg knew it was time to go when Sherlock grew handsy, slipping one hand down to palm John’s arse. With the other, he flicked it in a shooing motion towards Greg.

Arsehole.

Greg left, a smile tugging at his lips. He was happy for the berks, but in a way, it felt like the end of an era. He didn’t much fancy being a third-wheel, not when he had a pretty lady waiting for him across town.

Maybe now he could finally take her up on that offer to move in.


End file.
